A Little Fall of Rain
by Dramatic Surgeon
Summary: When the threads of Hawkeye's reality begin to unravel, B.J. has to find a way to bring him back...but the rain just won't stop coming.  No slash.
1. Cold Front

**This isn't my first ****fanfic, but it is my first MASH fanfic and the first one I've ever shared online. Reviews are welcome; the rest of the story is finished, but I'd like to see how the first chapter is received before continuing. **

** Note: the title has nothing to do with the Les Miserables song of the same name.**_  
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_Drip._

Rain pelted the soft earth of Korea, washing away layers of blood, filth and grime. The sound of rats and people alike, scurrying between the drops, filled the camp as night cooled the air.

_Drip._

A small pool of water gathered on the roof of a tent, streaming down the side and and plopping onto the ground in a gentle, steady rhythm. It seemed almost peaceful. Almost.

_Drip._

Inside the tent a solitary figure sat on his cot, absently swirling a colorless, pungent liquid around in a dirty glass. His arm didn't feel the motion, nor could he smell the metallic odor of blood drying on his boots. Long ago his mind had learned to block out these disturbing, unwelcome constants in his life.

In one swift motion he drained the contents of the glass, and the burning elixir snaked its way into his stomach. He didn't feel that anymore, either.

_Drip._

His mind was far from the tent, drifting back into the O.R. Back to a white sheet being drawn over the body he had been trying to save—or rather, save again. Memories mingled with the gin as he remembered patching up the baby-faced private once before, picking shrapnel out of his leg like splinters and warning him to pick a friendlier playground next time.

_Drip._

The slam of a tent door indicated the arrival of one of his bunkmates, but he was too numb to look up and see who it was. A barrage of words assaulted his ears—the only ones that penetrated his consciousness being "ubiquitous" and "miscreant"—leaving him to believe it was Charles. Somewhere in the corners of his mind a snappy comeback lingered, but it died before it could make the journey to his lips. Without realizing it, he automatically reached for the still, poured another glass and swallowed the shot. He shut his eyes tightly against the flood of memories washing over him, matching the rhythm of the rainfall outside.

_Drip._

The same private he had just sent back to the front a month before returned in more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle and needed a hell of a lot more help than simple shrapnel removal—help that came too late. The jovial youth who had kept post-op a lively place with his colorful stories and infectious laugh slipped away in front of him, leaving the scalpel that had saved so many lives uselessly dangling from his equally useless hand. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat; "useless" was a word that could describe everything in the war.

Another shot disappeared from the still. A laugh drifted through the camp, ringing hollow in his ears.

_Drip._

The door slammed again, revealing his other tentmate. He could hear the man talking, but nothing registered above the dull roar in his head. He felt the presence of his friend draw nearer and settle into the opposite bunk, but couldn't seem to look up from the floor. He heard movement at the still, then a glass being picked up and the soft creaking of a cot. Everything sounded like it was coming from another tent.

_Drip._

Finally, a single word cut through the fog. "Hawk?"

Hawkeye Pierce slowly, almost painfully raised his head to meet his friend's gaze. "Hmm?" he responded hazily.

"Ah, so he does live," Charles' disdainful voice chimed in from the opposite end of the tent. "I thought he'd merely died with his eyes open." B.J. Hunnicut shot the major a dirty look before turning his attention back to Pierce, who appeared to be watching him without actually seeing him. It was unsettling, if not downright creepy. "You okay?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah, sure," came the subdued reply. It was too fast, too automatic, and B.J. didn't believe a word of it.

_Drip._

"So you're just doing your best impression of a mannequin to impress us?" he chided gently, making a concentrated effort to keep the worry out of his voice. Pierce shrugged almost subliminally and averted his gaze.

B.J.'s mind rapidly ran through the possibilities that could cause this sudden, drastic change. Trying not to think of the more obvious (and frightening) choices, he went for the least concerning option first. "Is it the rain? That can depress anyone."

"Of course it's the rain, my sun-loving Californian," Winchester interrupted with the haughty air of a parent correcting a child. "It's making everyone even loonier in this dust-laden rubber ward. I am forced to protect my dear records from this vinyl-ravishing moisture and content myself with the witty yet redundant writings of Chaucer, whom—thanks to this sparkling gem in the crown of Asia—I have come to know on a more familiar level than even my own beloved sister," he ended with irritation.

_Drip._

He gave Pierce a cursory glance before continuing. "Your drinking companion has evidently taken his cue from the rain and drowned himself in that swill you ironically label 'the nectar of life'. Perhaps he drank so much he's actually embalmed himself."

"Charles, if you don't shut up I'm going to suture a cockroach to your lips when you're asleep," B.J. retorted, a hint of warning behind his placid expression. A derisive snort was Winchester's only response—a sound that stopped abruptly when Pierce turned to look at him. Or rather, through him. The empty, dark look in the man's eyes held his gaze for a long minute, before the captain turned his attention back to the floor.

The strange moment left Winchester chilled to the bone. He wrapped his blanket tighter around himself and glanced at B.J., who could tell that for the first time since the conversation started, he was worried too.

_Drip._

B.J. was still wracking his brain trying to figure out what was wrong when he caught sight of the blood covering Pierce's boots and pant legs, absently noting he hadn't changed since leaving surgery. Suddenly, a thought struck him: "It's that kid, isn't it? The one you worked on today—Harrison?" At the mention of Harrison's name Hawkeye's gaze automatically shifted towards the direction of the O.R., and B.J. knew he hit the nail on the head. "Look, Hawk, there was nothing you could do. Harrison was on borrowed time when he got here. We all get cases like that. You do the best you can, and that's all anyone can ask of you."

Pierce could tell his friend was talking, but other than the name "Harrison", he couldn't make out the words over the rush of gin-soaked blood in his ears. That, and the constant pounding of the rain outside his tent. In reality he figured the sound wasn't that loud, but to his ears every drop that hit the ground could have started an earthquake. He assumed B.J. was trying to console him, and somewhere in the darkest part of his soul he was grateful.

But it didn't change the fact that he saw Harrison's bleeding, shattered body every time he closed his eyes, even for a second. And for what? He had saved the private's leg, only to send him back to the front lines and have him die in a bloody mess. What good were any of them if even their successes went horribly wrong? What was the use?

_Drip._

"Thanks, Beej," he heard himself say, his voice flat and lifeless. The alcohol began to tug at his eyelids, so he lay down on his cot—blood-encrusted boots and all—and faced away from his friend. Right now, just for this moment, there was nothing he wanted to do more than sleep. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the relentless pounding of the rain outside. "G'night," he mumbled into his pillow.

B.J. stared at the figure laying before him, stunned. He glanced at Charles, who shrugged helplessly. They had both seen him depressed before, but nowhere near this degree. A rant normally accompanied these periods, and no matter how illogical or off-base it sounded at the time, B.J. knew he would come out of it. This time there was no rant—hell, there wasn't even a whisper. Just a silent, almost ghostly figure in the corner of the tent. In some ways, a quiet Hawkeye was more disturbing than a ranting Hawkeye.

Standing slowly from his bunk, B.J. walked over and covered Pierce with a blanket. After a moment's thought, he reached down and removed the doctor's bloodied shoes as well. Climbing into his own cot, he gave Pierce one last quizzical look before lying down and turning away to face the tent wall. "'Night, Hawk," he said quietly, knowing his friend was already asleep. Gone was the lighthearted attitude he had entered the tent with, replaced instead by a sense of uneasiness and trepidation. He closed his eyes and prayed that Pierce would somehow be his old self in the morning.

_Drip._

B.J. listened to the rain falling steadily outside and pulled his blanket tighter. Suddenly, he felt very cold.


	2. Thunder

**Thank you to everyone who has posted a review so far. More reviews are always welcome.  
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_Blood was everywhere. It lined the tables, the floor, even his boots. He looked down at the soldier on his table, a disfigured tangle of arms, legs and shrapnel wounds. The only thing missing was a face. Glancing down the rest of the O.R., he saw other surgeons working silently on similar faceless bodies. As quiet as the room was, every sound seemed magnified—the breathing, the torrential downpour outside, even the beating of his own heart. _

_Reaching down with the scalpel, he cut a neat and perfect incision in the soldier's flesh. Blood started spurting from the wound; he raised a hand to shield himself as it splashed his arm, hot and burning. Turning to his nurse he asked for a clamp, but noticed blood was suddenly gushing from everywhere—the patients, the nurses, the doctors, running down the table legs and over his feet. The doors to the O.R. burst open and blood came flooding into the room, washing everyone in bright crimson. _

_He lost his footing and fell into the rapidly expanding pool, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. People all around him were fighting to keep from drowning. He glanced at the windows and saw blood flowing in, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. With horror he suddenly understood it wasn't rainwater he heard outside: it was raining blood._

_He was swimming in it now, struggling to keep his head above the thick scarlet current. Instinctively he opened his mouth to inhale, then suddenly it was surrounding him—in his mouth, his nose, spreading across his vision. _

_The world closed in above him. He knew he was dying..._

A scream ripped from his throat, sounding distant and far away. He didn't remember bolting upright in his cot, knocking over a glass at the still, nor did he hear it shatter nearby. His eyes were wide with fear, but he couldn't see anything; part of his mind was still trapped in the O.R., drowning in blood. In his hysteria he became dimly aware of hands gripping his shoulders, gently shaking him. He heard a voice slowly pulling him back to reality: "Hawk, it's okay! It's me, you're all right!" Pierce blinked rapidly and turned towards the sound. He focused his eyes to find B.J. before him, disheveled—and more than a little frightened. "Beej?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah." B.J. eyed him carefully, not entirely sure it was safe to let go. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied in the exact same tone he used earlier. B.J. narrowed his eyes slightly, but released his grip as Hawkeye continued. "It was just...nothing." He shook his head, trying hard to clear it. Even now the details of the dream were starting to disappear, though the fear remained.

"I didn't realize 'nothing' could make you scream like that," B.J. commented cryptically. He heard the tremor in his own voice, a side effect of the adrenaline rush that had propelled him across the tent at Pierce's cry. He glanced sideways at Charles, who was trying to act undisturbed by the incident. In reality he too had been jarred awake, and would occasionally open an eye to sneak a peek in their direction.

"It was just a nightmare," Hawkeye insisted tiredly, his voice sounding alien to his ears. He closed his eyes a moment and suppressed a shudder; asleep or awake, he couldn't hide from the sound of that damned rain.

Opening them again, he smiled shakily at B.J. in a failed attempt to reassure his friend. "Thanks for waking me up," he said quietly, meaning every word of it. Lying back in his cot, he added, "If I have any more nightmares, I'll be sure to keep any screaming to myself." He rubbed his face, absently noting it was wet. B.J. had noticed as well, but wisely kept silent.

Hawkeye closed his eyes again and turned over, the dream already starting to fade into the night. A sleepy "G'night, Beej," indicated he was already drifting off again.

"'Night," B.J. echoed faintly, trying to shake the apprehension he felt seeing the sheer terror in his friend's eyes just moments before. Rising from his position on Pierce's cot he glanced over at Charles, who was watching him inquisitively through a single open eye. B.J. nodded once to indicate that—at least for now—the crisis was over, and the eye closed again.

His watch read 2:46 AM—about three hours to sunrise. B.J. settled into his cot, turned his light off for the second time that night and sat in the darkness, listening to the rain. After a few moments he shivered, rubbed his throbbing temples and lay down for three hours of fitful, restless sleep.


	3. Dark Skies

**Thank you to all who have reviewed my work so far. As always, more are welcome.**

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Morning came too quickly, but the sky over Korea showed no sign of it. No sun peeked over the horizon, hiding instead behind a lighter version of yesterday's grayish cast. The heavy rainfall of last night had slowed into a steady drizzle, which wasn't much of an improvement. Inside the camp, signs of life could be seen as people began emerging from their tents and trudging across the slick mud. The sound of showers in the distance mingled with the coarse, overpowering odor of stagnant coffee, two undeniable elements of a new day beginning—ready or not.

It was the coffee that woke B.J. For a brief second he thought he was in his own bed back home; that his wife was in the shower and the smell of coffee was the promise of an appetizing breakfast. Eggs, sausage, maybe a few pancakes if he was lucky. He smiled at the thought, but as he opened his eyes wider, the depressingly familiar features of his tent came into view and his hopes for a good breakfast sank into his stomach. Cursing himself for being fooled yet again, he sighed loudly and sat up.

A quick look at Winchester's vacant bunk told him the major had gotten an early start on the day. Yawning, he shifted his gaze to Hawkeye's side of the tent.

That's when the memories of the previous night crashed over him. Suddenly, all traces of lingering fatigue were gone, replaced by the vague fear that had been haunting him since he was first confronted by his friend's odd behavior. Hawkeye hadn't moved an inch in the three hours he had been asleep, still half-buried under the covers.

B.J. sighed again. No wonder Charles had left early: neither of them really knew what to do.

"This is nuts," he muttered to himself. There _had_ to be a way to snap his friend out of it. As he stood up from his cot and stretched, a thought struck him: maybe a trip to the mess tent would give Pierce an opportunity to vent his frustration. It had certainly inspired the man to make some unusual—and loud—observations in the past. Throwing on his clothes, he made his way over to Pierce's cot and tapped him. "Hawk."

No response.

B.J. nudged him a little harder. "Hawk, get up. Time to see what they're trying to pass off as food today." The body beneath the covers didn't move.

Swallowing the lump rising in his throat, B.J. shook him more insistently, meeting no resistance. He pushed back the panic creeping along the edges of his mind. "Hawk, get up!" Still nothing. "_Wake up_, dammit!" His mind was racing. _That's impossible. He couldn't be..._

"What?!" Hawkeye jumped as his eyes flew open. Reflexively, he shoved B.J.'s arm away and sat up. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," B.J. shook his head, relieved. "You—no, it's fine." He inhaled sharply. "I, uh, I was just headed for breakfast and thought you'd like some company."

Pierce stared blankly at him for a few seconds, still not completely awake. Then it all came back in an instant: the nightmare, the blood...Harrison. He abruptly turned away from his friend as it came flooding through him, taking over his senses and dragging him down again. "Oh," he responded with the same distant tone as before.

B.J. saw the horror of last night settle on Pierce's haggard features like a blanket, and instantly regret having said anything at all. "Hawk, let's just go to breakfast, okay? You could use the change of scenery." He heard the pleading tone in his voice; some part of him still prayed that a return to routine might bring a sense of normalcy back to their lives. Watching the vacant look return to his friend's eyes, he grit his teeth and wished he had simply left well enough alone.

Picking up one of Hawkeye's shirts from the floor, he tossed it in his direction. "Come on. You'll need to change if you want to impress the nurses," he said with a cheerfulness he didn't feel. Pierce caught it without looking up and changed automatically. B.J. bit his lip and resisted the urge to physically shake him, just to get another reaction. He watched the other man reach down awkwardly and slip into his boots—the blood now fully dry—before standing up and rubbing his neck. "All right, so let's go," Hawkeye said unenthusiastically. B.J. held back a grunt of frustration as he held the door open for Pierce and followed him out of the tent.

The pair sloshed through the mud into the mess tent. The line was already starting to form out the door as the smell of coffee and sausage permeated the area. Grabbing a tray, B.J. took whatever was dumped on it without actually looking at it—he figured it was better that way. Keeping one eye on Hawkeye, he searched out a friendly face in the crowd and found Corporal Radar O'Reilly sitting a few tables away, slowly digging his way through a tray piled high in front of him. He breathed a sigh of relief and, nudging Pierce, he gestured to O'Reilly before making his way across the tent. Maybe a conversation with their favorite company clerk would help pull Hawkeye out of his daze. "This seat taken, Radar?" he asked amiably.

Glancing up, Radar squinted through dirty glasses at the two doctors. "Uh, no sir," he replied around a mouthful of sausage.

"I see you're trying last month's special," B.J. commented as he slid into the bench opposite Radar. Pierce followed suit without so much as a glance in the corporal's direction. B.J. frowned slightly.

"Well, it's not so bad if you don't eat the crunchy parts," Radar answered seriously, spearing another sausage link and stuffing it into his mouth.

"I have a problem putting my life in the hands of army surplus," B.J. muttered, glancing at his friend for a reaction. Pierce silently picked at the food on his tray. Radar looked up, noticing his strange behavior for the first time. "You all right, sir?"

Pierce gazed dully at him. "Yeah, sure," he responded in the same tone B.J. had begun to hate, then resumed moving his breakfast around with his fork.

Radar stared wide-eyed at him, a shiver passing through his body. He glanced at B.J. as if waiting for an explanation. B.J. shrugged in the same manner as Charles the night before. "I was sort of hoping you could snap him out of it," he admitted.

"Out of what?" Radar asked, his eyes shifting back to Hawkeye.

"Been like this since last night. He lost a kid yesterday and hasn't been the same since."

"Oh," Radar breathed, obviously spooked. B.J. continued, "It was kind of a rough night. You may have heard a strangled sound emanate from our tent, and it wasn't because we broke one of Charles' records."

"You mean that was Hawk who yelled like that?" Radar asked incredulously. "I was asleep. I dreamed it was my uncle getting his foot stomped on by a horse."

"I almost wish it had been," B.J. remarked under his breath. "A foot's a lot easier to fix."

Radar turned his attention to Pierce, who was staring vacantly at his tray. "Well, uh...look, sir, uh—Hawk—sir..." he stammered timidly, trying to find the right words. "I'm sure you did what you could for him, right? I mean, not even the best doctor-surgeons can save everyone. Sometimes it's...just their time, you know?" he finished awkwardly, with a hopeful expression.

Hawkeye listened to Radar, trying to make out the words over the low buzzing in his ears. Assuming the boy was trying to cheer him up, he offered a chalky smile and thanked him. In reality, his mind was far from the conversation, thinking back to all the Harrisons he had lost. Every time he blinked he saw their faces—some convulsing as they lay dying, others passing peacefully, but all meeting the same fate. He glanced down at his uneaten breakfast, his stomach tied in knots. How many more months—hell, _years—_was this going to take? How many more Harrisons would be going home in more pieces than they arrived?

Radar sighed, clearly relieved at getting some kind of reaction from Hawkeye. B.J. knew better, and observed his friend carefully.

The newly encouraged corporal picked up his fork again, happy to have been of some help, and shoveled in a mouthful of powdered eggs as he continued. "Anyway, I think you sirs did a great job yesterday. I mean, the wounded just kept coming and you both kept at it 'till they were all taken care of. That's something a guy can really admire. I don't think you—" he stopped in mid-sentence, glancing upward towards the tent's ceiling.

B.J. recognized that look and groaned loudly. "So much for a quiet breakfast—even if I didn't plan on eating it," he complained sourly. He briefly wondered how Hawkeye was going to handle the approaching chaos and turned to eye his friend critically. If needed, he was willing to step in and prevent Pierce from participating if he thought it would put the patients at risk.

To his astonishment, all traces of Hawkeye's glazed-over expression were gone, replaced by an intense ferocity that almost scared him. He was staring at Radar with a strange expression; B.J. couldn't tell if it was anxiety or utter revulsion—or both.

He didn't have time to ponder it. "Sorry, sirs," Radar offered sincerely, before rushing out of the mess tent calling out the single word they had all come to dread—"Choppers!" Surprisingly, Pierce was up from the table before B.J. could blink and out of the tent in an instant, leaving him scrambling to catch up.

They sprinted (and slid) across the slippery mud. Through the rain B.J. caught sight of Charles coming out of post-op as they heard the sound of helicopters approaching. An announcement blared throughout the compound: _"Attention. __All medical personnel report to triage. Incoming wounded—choppers, buses and ambulances. Looks like this one's going to take a while, folks."_ Within minutes, the sleepy camp was suddenly filled to capacity with both wounded and organized confusion.

Hawkeye immediately went to work. He went from patient to patient, quickly assessing their wounds. "All right, this one has multiple lacerations, possible pneumothorax. He goes first," he told the nurse next to him, moving on to the next soldier with expert timing. The fog that enveloped him since yesterday had suddenly lifted, instead thrusting his surroundings into a harsh, sharp relief. It felt as though the world had instantaneously gone from one extreme to the other; all of a sudden the ambulance was too loud, the rain was too cold, the blood was too red. Rubbing his eyes painfully, he continued cataloging injuries.

He was onto his tenth or eleventh case when the shot rang out.


	4. Lightning

**Thank you to everyone who has commented on my story so far. There are a couple more chapters to go; reviews are always welcome.**

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B.J. was kneeling next to a soldier, inspecting the man's wounds when he heard the ricochet. As a reflex he ducked and looked up, just as a second shot split the air. Someone in the distance called out, "Sniper!" 

The entire camp froze for a second; then all hell broke loose.

Litters were picked up and hurriedly taken indoors as everyone ran for cover. Those too far away from the safety of a tent hit the ground and hid behind whatever they could. B.J. huddled against the side of an ambulance. "Are they color blind?!" he exclaimed, outraged. "That cross is red, not army green!" Crouching low, he peered around the ambulance, across the compound...and saw Hawkeye standing several feet away, out in the open, staring indifferently in the direction of the gunfire. "Hawk!" he called out frantically, but the other man didn't respond.

Pierce had heard the shooting and gazed up into the hillside. _What now?_ he thought bitterly. _Here we are, stuck in a place none of us want to be, patching up children who shouldn't be fighting—shouldn't be __dying__—saving them with equipment we don't have, and we're being __shot at__ for our trouble?_ A short, sharp laugh escaped from his lungs that felt more like a spasm. He heard B.J. calling him, but it felt like he was watching himself in a movie, waiting to see what would happen next. None of it seemed real anymore—not even the bullets.

B.J. saw Pierce's vacant expression amidst the gunfire. Fear gripped his heart: was Hawkeye trying to get shot? Did he actually want to die?

Before he gave himself the opportunity to think it over, he was out from behind the ambulance and running across the compound towards Pierce. As the slippery mud slowed his steps he became all too aware of the danger he now faced. "Hawk, _get down_!" he yelled, diving the last few feet.

He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and pulled him to the ground as another shot rang out, much louder than before. A hot, searing sensation bore into his side as they hit the earth, telling him the bullet had found its mark. He cried out and instinctively pressed a hand against the wound.

The sound startled Hawkeye, who froze as he watched B.J.'s blood pulsing through his fingers and staining his clothes. It mingled with the rain and mud, turning the ground a sickly hue. He stared at his friend, his eyes suddenly very clear and sharp. "Come on," he urged, helping B.J. gingerly to his feet.

B.J. could only nod as they made their way back across the compound, trying to stay low. Once they were back behind the ambulance, he felt under his shirt to evaluate the damage. Pierce gaged the distance to the surgical tent. "How bad?" he asked quietly.

"Can't tell yet," B.J. winced as his hand gently probed the wound.

"Can you make it over there?" Pierce gestured to the tent.

"Think so," came the pained reply. Hawkeye hoisted B.J.'s arm around his neck for support as they ran towards the shelter, dodging the raindrops and bullets.

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Pierce flung the door to the surgical tent open, practically dragging B.J. behind him into the corridor between pre-op and the O.R.. Setting him down on a bench, he helped the man get his shirt off and inspected the injury. "I think...flesh wound," B.J. told him, breathing heavily. "Bullet...might have grazed...a rib, but I don't...think it's too bad." 

"Yeah, but the bleeding's pretty bad. Hold on a minute." Pierce disappeared into pre-op. B.J. leaned against the wall and closed his eyes wearily, listening to the muted chaos going on in the rooms around him as wounded soldiers were being tended to. He concentrated on breathing normally, trying to steel himself against the waves of pain and nausea. _At least Hawk seems to have finally snapped out of it,_ he thought ironically. _It's a shame I'm bleeding like a stuck pig, or we could celebrate at Rosie's._

He heard Hawkeye above the din, followed by another familiar voice. A few moments later Corporal Klinger appeared with a few rolls of bandages and a bottle of alcohol, Pierce following close behind. "Holy mackerel!" Klinger exclaimed. "He wasn't kidding! You mean the sniper got you?"

"No, Klinger...the sniper...just wanted to know what...color Americans bleed, and...this was the only way he could...think of to find out," B.J. panted, a bit of humor finding its way through the blinding pain. Noticing the corporal's colorful sun dress, he couldn't help himself: "Green and...yellow, Klinger?"

"Well, summer's almost gone. Thought I'd wear it while it was still in season," Klinger quipped, carefully disguising the concern in his voice.

"Small talk later, stop the bleeding now," Pierce muttered impatiently as he took the supplies from Klinger and began cleansing the wound, trying to ignore the wince on B.J.'s face. "Tell the Colonel we're going to be down a doctor for the O.R." Klinger slipped through pre-op's doors, and he turned his attention back to B.J. "When the bleeding comes under control we'll take an x-ray to make sure there's no bullet in there."

B.J. nodded silently, watching a thick red stream trickle off the bench and form a large pool on the floor. He must have started to drift off, because he suddenly felt Pierce urgently tapping the side of his face. "Come on, Beej, stay with me," he said sharply. "You're getting whiter than these bandages." B.J. nodded again and tried to sit up straighter, biting back a whimper.

Within minutes, the other surgeon had expertly wrapped the bandage around his midsection, temporarily stemming the flow of blood. "That'll do it for now. I'll try and find a spare wheelchair so you won't have to walk to X-ray." Pierce studied him for a long moment, guilt shadowing his face._ I could have killed him_, he thought darkly._ I almost did. If that bullet had gone two inches higher_, _Erin Hunnicut would be growing up without a father right now and it would be my fault_._ What the __hell__ have I done?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the pre-op doors opening suddenly. Patients, prepped for surgery, were wheeled across the corridor into the O.R. Some of the orderlies and nurses paused for a moment to give the two men a shocked or worried glance before continuing on.

B.J. examined Hawkeye's face. That creepy, haunted look had started to make its way across his friend's features again as the man's ice blue eyes met his own. _God, not again_. "Hawk..." he began weakly, but Charles emerged from pre-op before he could say anything more.

"Pierce, you're going to need a—" Winchester stopped as he saw B.J. leaning against the wall, his breathing labored. Already thoroughly shaken from Hawkeye's behavior the night before, he made a visible effort to compose himself at the sight. The word spread through pre-op that Hunnicut had been hit by a sniper, but he still hadn't quite been prepared to see it.

B.J. watched Charles through a haze of pain, waiting to hear a barb about needing to learn how to run _from_ and not _into_ danger, but the major's features softened. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"Enough to feel...like I've been skewered...and roasted," B.J. responded, fighting to keep his stomach where it belonged.

"The bullet grazed the abdomen. It might still be in there." Pierce's voice was strained.

"Will a laparotomy be necessary?" Winchester asked, his eyes sweeping the pool of blood under B.J.

"Only an x-ray will tell for sure," Hawkeye responded distantly, not glancing up.

Charles studied him thoughtfully, then looked towards the O.R. "If you require assistance, I have a short time left before they're ready for us," he offered quietly.

Pierce didn't react. He was staring at B.J. with a troubled, almost desperate expression that wasn't lost on the other two.

The major's eyes momentarily darted back to the wounded doctor before continuing, his voice unusually gentle. "Pierce, Doctor Hunnicut may need surgery, and he'll most certainly need a transfusion. We also have an operating room stacked to its very rafters with soldiers who need our expertise, so the sooner we get through this, the sooner this morning's crisis will be forgotten."

Hawkeye squeezed his eyes shut, mouthing something the others couldn't make out. Charles waited patiently, not wanting to make things worse.

After a moment, Pierce sighed. "Go on, Charles. I've got this." Charles glanced at B.J., who nodded. The major visibly relaxed. "Very well," he said simply, his aristocratic air returning. He brought the surgical mask that had been lying around his neck up to his face. "Due to the fact that going outside is—obviously—hazardous to our health at the moment, the Colonel has instructed us to enter the scrub room via the O.R." Making his way to the operating room door, he paused in mid-stride to glance meaningfully back at Pierce. "Should you and Hunnicut need my help, I am...here," he added tentatively, not sure which of the two men he should worry about more, and left.

B.J. opened his mouth to speak, but the room started to spin before he could get a word out. Alarmed, Hawkeye grabbed his shoulders and held him upright. "Hang in there. Let me get you that wheelchair." He stood abruptly, and for a second B.J. thought it looked like he was close to tears.

"God, I'm sorry, Beej," Pierce whispered, before quickly heading back into pre-op.

The rain was falling faster and heavier just outside the surgical tent. B.J. watched it silently through the window.

_Drip._

Despite the pain, he couldn't hold back a shiver.


	5. Downpour

**Thanks to everyone who has come this far. Reviews are, as always, welcome.**

* * *

A tapping noise woke B.J. He turned instinctively towards the sound, and was instantly sorry for it. His side hurt like hell, but the x-ray had shown the bullet only grazed him—no damage to any vital organs. A blood transfusion, several stitches to close the wound, and he was assured he'd be good as new. After a few hours he was even allowed to recuperate in his tent when post-op overflowed with wounded soldiers. Even with the painkillers starting to wear off, after considering what could have happened, he thought himself lucky. 

"Sorry, son, didn't mean to wake you," came the familiar voice of Colonel Potter as the man sat down near his cot. "I would've come by later if I'd seen you were asleep." B.J. relaxed and tried to sit up, immediately regretting the movement as an invisible knife stabbed him. "Hope you don't mind if I lay at attention, Colonel," he said, reclining again.

"Not at all. I just came by to see how you're doing," Potter replied as he inspected the stitches beneath B.J.'s protective bandage.

"Other than donating half of my blood to the surgical tent floor, I can't complain," B.J. shifted slightly in the cot to take the pressure off his side.

"The sniper was caught half a mile away and will be spending his days with the rest of the POWs, so at least you can rest knowing he won't be back." Potter finished his inspection and leaned back. "Those stitches are definitely Pierce's handiwork," he commented. "Did a good job."

He let the last sentence linger in the air as he gazed steadily at B.J., who found himself subconsciously flinching under the older man's scrutiny. "You aren't normally so careless around people who are trying to kill you," the colonel said finally. "Mind telling me what happened?"

B.J. shrugged, trying too hard to be non-committal. "Nothing, really. I just didn't get to cover in time."

Potter's eyebrow arched upward. "News travels fast here, Hunnicut," he said after a moment. "You were already behind an ambulance. Pierce was standing out in the open, watching the hills like a frightened rabbit."

"Well, ah...his foot was caught in the mud and he couldn't get it out, so I went to help. Guess the sniper thought I made the better target," B.J. joked weakly. Even he knew the excuse sounded thin, and suspected the colonel wouldn't believe it.

He was right. Potter stared hard at him, trying through sheer force of will to break the other man down into telling him the truth. This time, however, B.J. matched his gaze stubbornly. They both knew what he was implying, but B.J was clearly unwilling to say anything.

Finally, Potter sighed. "I know when I'm being stonewalled," he relented. "If you want to keep this a private matter, far be it from me to butt in. But talk has already gone around the camp about last night—a lot of it reaching my office—and Pierce didn't say a word in the O.R. today. Can you tell me when he ever did that? He actually distracted more of my staff with his silence than he normally does when he can't shut up! Let me tell you, _that_ takes talent." He thought for a moment, then leaned forward and asked softly, "What about Sidney? He seems to have a knack for getting through to Pierce."

B.J. shook his head. "No, not yet. Please, Colonel, let me handle this for now." Even through his pain there was an earnestness to his request. Potter nodded slowly and stood up. "All right, Hunnicut. Have it your way. Just promise you'll let me know if it gets too much to handle. In the meantime, make sure you give that hole in your gut time to heal." He turned to leave, then glanced back at B.J. "Oh, and the next time you decide to pull the wool over this army mule's eyes, try to come up with something more convincing, all right?" He was rewarded with a weary, lopsided grin from the captain, and headed out of the tent.

On his way out, he nearly collided with the very man he'd been talking about. "Oh, Pierce," he said. "I just checked on your bunkmate. Seems he's doing fine now, thanks to you."

Pierce stared at him as though he'd just been slapped. After a moment he realized the colonel was referring to him patching up B.J.'s wound, and nodded absently. The dull gray sky and teeming rain only emphasized the cadaverous gaze in his glacier-tinted eyes, making him seem every bit like a trapped animal. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't seem to get any words out. Eventually, a small "thanks" escaped his lips as he slipped into the tent.

Potter suddenly shivered, surprising even himself. Everything about Pierce's mannerisms had completely unnerved him, and he was all too glad to head as far away from the tent as possible. He had seen that look only once before, back in the first world war—right before the soldier ran under the treads of an oncoming tank. Closing his eyes, he secretly hoped Hunnicut knew what he was doing; after seeing that half-crazed, ghostly look on Hawkeye's face, he felt a chill setting into his bones.

* * *

Inside the tent, B.J. watched the bedraggled surgeon make his way over. "How're you feeling?" Pierce asked faintly, lowering himself into his own cot. 

_I should ask you the same thing, _B.J. thought, but only answered, "I have the strangest craving for swiss cheese." He had intended it as a joke, but it seemed to have almost the opposite effect as Hawkeye's shoulders sagged slightly and he put his head in his hands.

The two men sat in silence for a minute, listening to the rain outside. B.J. noted the weariness on his friend's face, wishing more than anything he knew the words to say to make it better.

But the truth was, he could identify with it all. The bitterness, the sorrow, the feeling of helplessness...he was all too familiar with that darker part of himself, and he didn't have the answers either.

"Wanna talk?" he asked.

Hawkeye heard B.J. ask him a question, but he couldn't respond. Something felt like it was blocking his vocal cords, preventing him from talking. The feeling was crushing his chest, welling up inside of him. He felt very much like he did in his dream the night before: drowning and overwhelmed. Pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, he couldn't stop himself from seeing the blood in his mind: the endless parade of bodies he'd just finished working on...Harrison's pale, lifeless face...B.J. in the surgical tent, his life gushing out onto the floor..."God, Beej," he murmured out loud, but couldn't get anything more out. The pressure kept building and he found it difficult to breathe. _ Is this what a heart attack feels like?_

Suddenly, the feeling bubbled up and started pouring out from his eyes, scalding and wet. For a moment he wasn't even sure what was happening, but as the tears coursed down his face and through his fingers he realized he couldn't stop them. Taking his hands away he looked up towards the ceiling to stop the flow, but to no avail. It was as though his body had grown weary of all the anger, pain and frustration he had been holding in and was releasing it all in a single, unrestrained burst before he exploded from the inside.

A strange sound escaped his throat. It started softly at first, but rapidly gained momentum with each breath he took until it wracked his body every time he exhaled. The sound was difficult to place—it seemed halfway between a wounded cry and a primal scream. He could feel himself shaking uncontrollably, and suddenly remembered the other person in the tent.

Glancing at B.J. through blurred eyes, he fully expected to see a look of alarm, or even mutual awkwardness. Instead, the other man was watching him silently, with an air of understanding. At that moment, Hawkeye realized B.J. didn't blame him for the incident earlier. Somehow that only made things worse, especially when he blamed himself. He tried to brush the tears away, but they only fell harder, matching the rhythm of the rain outside.

B.J. tried to move off the cot, but the stitches in his abdomen begged for mercy. "Hawk," he said softly, sensing Pierce's embarrassment. "It's okay."

The purge Pierce was experiencing helped him find his voice again. "The hell it is!" he blew up, making B.J. flinch involuntarily. "What am I doing here? What are _any_ of us doing here? I can't help anyone—they just go out and get themselves killed anyway!"

"We all feel that way sometimes. Believe me, I saw Harrison when you were working on him. There was nothing—"

Hawkeye laughed harshly, a sound that bordered on hysterical. "Beej, this isn't just about Harrison! I haven't been able to help _anyone_ here. By the time a kid gets to us, we either send them back to the front lines with a band-aid and a lollipop, or we send them home in a bodybag because their warranty expired!" Along with the tears, he could feel words long bottled up inside him tumbling out of his mouth before his brain could catch up. B.J. noticed it too, and refrained from interrupting; he realized this catharsis may be just what the other man needed.

"What's _wrong_ with me?" Pierce continued, standing from his cot and pacing the tent floor. It was the most movement B.J. had seen from him since he lost Harrison on the table. "You almost got killed because of me! How can you possibly forgive me for that? I can't even forgive myself! I hate myself for it, and you should at least have the decency to hate me too!"

He stopped pacing abruptly and knelt in front of B.J., meeting him at eye level. "Don't you get it?" he demanded desperately. "You ran out to help me, and I _didn't even see you _until you got shot! How can they possibly expect me to save anyone's life over here if I can't even save myself?!"

B.J. quietly observed Hawkeye's tirade, listening to the anguish in his voice. The rain seemed to punctuate every sentence. His heart went out to the man, but for once he was at a loss for words. After all, they all had felt as Pierce did at one time or another—they just dealt with it in different ways. He had a wife and daughter back home to lean on; Hawkeye had only his father, who was a wealth of moral support but hardly an anchor to ground him in reality.

A pang of guilt combined with the throbbing pain in his side. He was well aware his friend often hid behind an offbeat sense of humor to mask his fears, but hadn't realized just how badly the place was getting to him. _How could I have missed it?_

Pierce stood up, suddenly drained. He had fallen silent, more because he'd run out of breath than words. The tears had finally stopped as well, and the pressure lifted from his chest. He didn't feel like he was about to die anymore, but the emotional explosion hadn't done anything to help him, either.

"Sorry, Beej. I don't mean to unload on you like that," he muttered softly, heading back to his own side of the tent and flopping down on the cot. "I guess you're right—this place gets to everyone. It's just all so useless, you know? I thought our job was to save lives. What are we doing here if we can't even do that?"

Silence again. B.J. closed his eyes, holding back a sigh. Hawkeye's words had struck a chord in him. His mind drifted back to post-op, where he had been speaking to an enlisted man who was in Harrison's unit. The two men had struck up an amiable conversation in the short time he was recuperating there (though that may have been aided by the painkillers). The surgeon had learned a little more about Harrison's life, and how he—

_That's it. _B.J. sat straight up in his cot, ignoring the protest from his abdomen. "Hawk," he said urgently.

"Mmph," came the drowsy reply.

"Hawk, get up. We need to go somewhere." B.J. lifted a foot out of bed, gasping slightly at the pain. It seemed so obvious, now.

"We do? Where are we going?"

"Post-op."

"Very funny, Beej. I just came from post-op. Believe me, there's nothing there that can't wait until my next shift."

"Yes there is," B.J. insisted, trying to set his other leg onto the floor. Seeing his difficulty, Pierce sat up immediately. "Hey, take it easy. I don't wanna have to sew you up again." He rubbed his face to dry the remaining tears and got up from the cot. Taking the wheelchair that had been parked next to B.J.'s bed, he positioned it to help him sit down. "You know how hard these things are to drive in the mud, don't you?"

"It'll be worth it, I promise." B.J. slid into the wheelchair. Hawkeye muttered something too quiet to be heard, pushing the wheelchair out the door and into the rain.


	6. Aftermath

**I'd like to thank everyone who has read this story all the way through, and to those who reviewed the story and encouraged me. I can't say when my next fanfic will be (it depends on what inspires me) but I've appreciated the opportunity to share this one with you.**

* * *

The two doctors arrived at post-op, drenched from being stopped several times by well-wishers giving B.J. encouragement. Inside, a nurse was busy monitoring the injured soldiers. Two of the patients were absorbed in a card game, while a third seemed to be scribbling furiously in a notebook. The muted sound of rain outside accompanied their actions, providing a blanket of white noise throughout the area. 

"Weren't you just here, Doctor Pierce?" the nurse asked, confused.

"That's what I thought too," Hawkeye responded, trying to hide his exasperation. "Turns out B.J. missed this place so much he wanted to visit for old times' sake." B.J. ignored the comment, searching the room for a particular face. After a few seconds, he spotted him: a young kid with short-cropped, raven black hair and a touch of humor in his brown eyes. His left arm was immobilized to the shoulder, his right arm holding a book.

B.J. pointed in the boy's direction. "Over there, Hawk. Private Nathan Rhodes." Hearing his name, the boy looked up and saw Pierce wheeling B.J. over to him. "Hi there, doc," he said cheerfully. "Looks like you're coming along just fine. I heard they got the sniper, too."

"Yep, he'll have a window seat in the nearest POW camp for the rest of the war," B.J. replied, and gestured to Pierce. "In fact, you're looking at the man who helped stitch me up. Private Rhodes, meet Hawkeye Pierce. "

"That so?" Rhodes glanced up at Hawkeye. "I saw you earlier but didn't know who you were. Doctor Hunnicut told me a lot about you, sir."

"Don't believe everything you hear," Pierce responded distantly. B.J. could tell his friend really didn't want to be there. As he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his side, he realized he really shouldn't be up and about, either. Still, this was more important. Studying Hawkeye cautiously, he said, "Private Rhodes and I were talking about his unit." Then, after a pause, "And Harrison."

Rhodes nodded, his face turning somber. "Harrison—Leo—was my friend. He...could always make us laugh, no matter what was going on around us." Gazing at Pierce thoughtfully, he added, "I hear you worked on him before, and when we came in."

Pierce stared at Rhodes, frozen. B.J. tensed as he gaged the man's expression. Had he made a mistake?

Before he could say anything, the boy continued. "He was right next to me when we came under attack. We both saw the grenade at the same time, but he pushed me as far away from the danger as he could. He—saved my life, sir. I want you to know that."

B.J. carefully watched Pierce, who was still staring—unblinking—right through the private. His heart sank.

"Leo told me how badly his leg had been shredded last time, and how he was scared he was gonna lose it, but said a surgeon at the 4077th made it good as new. The truth is, I wouldn't be here today if he hadn't been there to throw me clear of the blast. If you're the one that fixed his shrapnel wound before, I guess I should thank you too, doc. In a way, you saved my life right along with him." Rhodes glanced away, the tips of his ears turning pink with embarrassment.

Hawkeye blinked rapidly, as though waking from a stupor. The boy's words rang clear as a bell, echoing in the recesses of his mind. With the skill of a scalpel they penetrated the darkness that had been tenaciously clinging to him. _You saved my life_...

There was a small, almost imperceptible change in the doctor's eyes, but B.J. caught it and grinned. For once, he knew he was right on the mark.

"Well...um..." Hawkeye searched for the right words. "Look, uh, you—you just work on getting better. The, uh, hotel here is first rate, if you ignore the risk of food poisoning. And I'm sure Doctor Hunnicut here will come and visit you."

"Yeah, sure," B.J. agreed. "And when you're feeling better, you can sample some of the finest gin in Korea—as long as you don't mind second-degree esophageal burns." He suddenly cringed and gripped the arms of the wheelchair as a wave of pain forced a gasp from his lungs. Pierce glanced at him sharply, his eyes now bright and clear. "All right, time to head back," he announced, taking hold of the wheelchair. Rhodes nodded and said, "Thanks for stopping by, sir. And, Doctor Pierce—thank you. For Leo...and me."

Pierce watched him silently for a long moment, then responded quietly, "Get some rest, Rhodes." He moved the wheelchair back into the main aisle and started to head out of post-op. At the door he stopped, and in a voice only B.J. could hear he murmured, "Thanks, Beej."

"It's what I'm here for," he responded glibly, but they both could sense the unspoken meaning behind his words: _you're welcome_.

Heading through the doors into the compound, B.J. glanced up at the sky. A few rays of late afternoon sun had finally managed to slice their way through the gloom, dodging the clouds on their journey to the earth below. He closed his eyes, drinking in their warmth; he'd been cold for far too long. After a moment, he noticed something else.

Hawkeye noticed it too. "Hey...the rain stopped." He pushed the wheelchair through the mud, his eyes trained on the sky above.

"Yeah. Just in time, too—I don't think we could've handled all the animals coming two by two."

"I bet Radar would've been just fine with that." Hawkeye chuckled. Not just a hollow imitation of one, but an actual chuckle. The sound was music to B.J.'s ears.

As they headed back to the tent, Pierce asked, "When you get back to bed, did you want me to bring you something from the mess tent? I can't guarantee it'll be edible, but there's always a fifty percent chance. The other fifty being in the 'tolerable if you've ever eaten a tennis ball' category."

"Sounds fine, Hawk." Inwardly, B.J. breathed a sigh of relief. Hawkeye—the one he knew—was back.

And, for now, that's all that mattered.


End file.
